Once, many years ago, a young whismur named Decebal fell ill and took to his bed at his mother’s guidance. Sleep came fast and the child found himself in a bright land of spirals that stretched upwards into a honey sky. He saw his friends, far away, but within his reach. A part of his mind remembered his sickness and he did not approach them. He turned and walked the other way, up a great twist, until he reached a partition where the sky felt soft and fluid.
He pressed against it and it sucked him up, though warmth and comfort , until the warmth stopped and the soft yellow faded into solid grey. He walked forward until he reached a sign post made of white bone that pointed in three direction: to the left, to the right, to the center. When Decebal set a hand against the pole, the signpost spoke out to him and asked where he wanted to go.
Decebal said, “Please, I wish to find a way to be healthy once more,” for he wished to play with his friends, but could not bring himself to get them ill. The signpost bent forward with the soft creak of strained bones and whispered to him, “To the left, there are harsh truths and to the right, there are sweet lies. Head down the middle, boy, and you will find the palace of the Dream King. If anyone can tell you how to cure your illness, it would be him. He can solve anything and see through lies and truths.”
The child thanked the sign post and walked forward through the wasteland of grey. Each step forward revealed tumbled houses and broken trees with their colors sapped away from them. Grey stones piled upon the cracked grey dirt. In the distance was the only whole structure; a temple made of black and white stones. Decebal did not stop by the ruins. He walked forward, into the temple and down a long room lit by red tongues of fire. At the end of the hall sat a tall throne of sleek obsidian. A man of shadows and darkness stared down at Decebal with one blue eye.
“Greetings, my child,” he said, “I hear you have fallen ill.”
The boy nodded his head and told the man of his friends and of where he’d come from. The man leaned forward, fingers tented together as he listened in silence. Around him, the shadows curled forward like the teeth of a great beast, ready to bite into its prey.
“I see. What a dreadful situation to be caught in, and, how lucky it is that you listened to that signpost. For, indeed, I know the way to cure what ails you.” The shadow man leaned back against the throne. Each word he spoke dripped warm and smooth like the honeyed barrier Decebal passed through earlier. “I will ease your pain, so long as you heed my words and do exactly what I ask of you.”
Decebal, eager to play with his friends, nodded his head. The dark man on the throne raised a hand and a doorway grew from the shadows.
“Travel through this passage, my child, and walk until you come across a murder of murkrows. They will ask you who has sent you to them, and you must respond, The King of Dreams. Do you understand?”
He nodded and thanked the man before he stepped through the arch and into the flat grey landscape of the world behind the palace. He walked down across the flatlands and down into the badlands where a cluster of birds perched in the skeleton arms of an ancient, dead tree. The leader, when he saw Decebal walk into sight, flew from the branches and landed on the ground.
“Well, well, well, what’ve we got here? Fresh blood? Tell me, fresh blood, who sent you out into the badlands to talk to us?”
“The King of Dreams sent me. He said you could help me get well, for I am very sick and can’t play with my friends.”
“Is that so, is that so,” the bird said with a laugh, “Then, step around to the other side of this tree and sit down. We’ll take good care of you.”
The boy did as he was told, but, as soon as he sat down, roots shot forth and bound the child to the ground. He screamed for help while the murkrow landed next to him, a glint in its dark eyes. No matter how Decebal twisted, he could not free himself. The bird hopped onto his chest and tilted its head, its sharp beak bright against the grey horizon.
“Stop squirming. You wanted a solution, didn’t you? If we take your heart from your chest and lock it in the knot of this tree, you won’t be worried about making your friends sick.” The murkrow pressed the tip of its beak against the child’s chest and, with a cruel slice, split him open and plucked out his heart.